


Counting Breaths

by trulywicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF!John, Fluff, Introspective John, M/M, Reunion, Sherlock's return, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trulywicked/pseuds/trulywicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Sherlock's return, John takes the opportunity to consider how he'll be spending his time from now on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Breaths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Acherona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acherona/gifts).



> This is a present for the amazing and wonderful Acherona's Birthday. She deserves so much more than this little bitty drabble but I do hope she enjoys it. MANY HAPPY RETURNS AKRA!

Deep blue eyes watched as dark curls wound around tapered, competent fingers as they carded through silky black hair. The deep, peaceful, and perhaps slightly exhausted breathing of the owner of those curls assureed him that yes, Sherlock was here, alive and in his arms, if a bit battered from the day's events.

  
John would like to be able to say he felt guilty about the shiner that graced Sherlock's eye, one placed there this morning by his own fist, but by God he didn't. The little bastard had waltzed back into his life all careless, wild energy with barely an explanation and had expected him to just pop happily along to 'tie up loose ends' like a good little soldier horse. He'd deserved the reminder that a soldier horse could kick and kick hard after John realized that he was not hallucinating. So no, he did not feel guilty about clocking Sherlock.

  
That didn't mean he hadn't been damn near collapsing with joy and relief at the sight of the bastard actually _alive_ and rattling off brilliance as always. And it didn't mean that, when he'd let slip an 'amazing' and seen Sherlock's shields fall for just an instant to see a staggering vulnerability and slight disbelief, as if he'd never expected to hear that from John again, he hadn't wanted to take Sherlock in and shield him from the world. He had, especially when bloody Moriarty's pet sniper had nearly blown a bound and beaten to shit Sherlock's head off just before John had tackled the fucker to the ground.

  
John knew he had savagery in him, enough to have gone on black bag missions that were so massively redacted that Mycroft himself wouldn't have been able to deduce the details, but never had it been so close to the surface as when he'd been slamming his fists over and over into Moran's smirking face even after the sniper had been knocked out. The only reason, the _only_ reason Moran was still alive was because John knew how agonizingly painful it was to be without your reason for living rather than just passing through the days in a fog of existence and to him that was exactly the punishment Moran deserved most. To live daily with so much heart rending pain that death would be a blessing.

  
He'd cut Sherlock free from the chair he'd been tied to and given Mycroft a thousand yard stare when the bastard had tried to start in on Sherlock. He absolutely did not have the patience for resentful, stupidly reckless sibling arguments and sniping today. He'd yanked Sherlock back to 221b, giving poor Mrs. Hudson a fright in the process (he'd apologize tomorrow), up to the still empty flat, and made the little bastard sit while he tended his injuries.

  
He wasn't entirely sure when he'd finished that and had just touched Sherlock with shaking hands or when he'd begun to cry but he remembered Sherlock's apology for what he'd done to him, followed by desperate kisses and frantic hands scrabbling over each other. He remembered Sherlock tackling him to the couch, Sherlock sucking on those long, elegant fingers, Sherlock reaching behind to prepare himself. He remembered Sherlock hissing as he'd taken him inside and remembered Sherlock moving astride him like some bloody incubus, all too beautiful to be real as he'd taken them both to soul-shattering orgasm.

  
And now he was here, Sherlock asleep in his arms, and still unable to stop touching the other man and counting his breaths. He had a feeling that he'd be doing this every night for a long time until he truly managed to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating but that was fine. It wasn't altogether a bad way to spend the night counting Sherlock's breaths.


End file.
